“Yes, but doing what? Going where?”
He looked up at her. “You know there’s no reply to that. We’re seeking help, from whatever came out of the Core once before to destroy us.”
“And how are we supposed to find it?”
“You sound like the Finance sub-Committee,” he said sourly. “All we can do is put ourselves into a position where they can find us… whoever they are.”
She felt her mood swinging away from him now; she felt hot and vaguely soiled, and once more the tight curves of the walls seemed to close in around her. She recalled, now, that they hadn’t kissed once. She didn’t even like this man. “So you’re happy to be going somewhere. Anywhere. Is that what this is really all about? — providing you with recreation from your awful burdens? And if it is, did you really have to drag me down into the depths with you?”
For a moment there was an element of hurt in his face, and his lips parted as if he were about to protest; but then he smiled, and she saw his defensive front enclose him once more. “Now, now. Let’s not bicker. We don’t want to be found at odds when our host from the Core comes to meet us, do we?”
“I don’t think I can restrain myself for such a long wait,” she said with contempt, and she turned back to her pigs, stroking and soothing them.
There was another thud at the hull, a scrape along the length of the ship. This one was softer than before, but still Dura found herself shuddering. She calmed the nervous pigs with quiet words, and wondered if she had been right — if it really would be such a long wait, after all.
Electron gas crackling from its superconducting hoops, the tiny wooden ship labored centimeter after centimeter into the thickening depths of the neutron star.
Bzya was to be put on double shifts, inside the Bells. He didn’t know when he would next have enough free time to get away from the Harbor between dives. So he invited Adda and Farr to come see him off, in a place he called a “bar”.
Adda found the place with some difficulty. The bar was a small, cramped chamber tucked deep inside the Downside. The only light came from guttering wood-lamps on the walls; in the green, poky gloom Adda was strongly aware of how deep inside the carcass of the City he was buried.
In one corner of the bar was a counter where a couple of people were apparently serving something, some kind of food. Rails crisscrossed the chamber with no apparent pattern; men and women clustered together in small groups on the rails, slowly eating their way through bowls of what looked like bread, and talking desultorily. Adda saw heavy workers’ tunics, scarred flesh, thick, twisted limbs. One or two appraising stares were directed at the upfluxer.
Bzya was alone at a length of rail, close to the far wall. He saw Adda and raised an arm, beckoning him over; three small bowls were fixed to the rail beside him.
Adda pushed forward, feeling self-conscious in his bandages, and clambered stiffly through the crowded place, aware of the babble of conversation all-around him.
“Adda.” Bzya smiled through his distorted face, and waved Adda to a clear space of rail. Adda hooked one arm over the rail, hooking himself comfortably into place. “Thanks for coming down.” Bzya glanced, once, past Adda toward the door, then turned back to his bowls.
Adda caught the look. “No Farr,” he said heavily. “I’m sorry, Bzya. I couldn’t find him.”
Bzya nodded. “I expect he’s Surfing again.”
“I know you did a lot for him, when he was working in the Harbor; he should have…”
Bzya held up his thick palm. “Forget it. Look, if I was his age I’d rather be losing myself in the sky with the Surfers than sitting in a poky place like this with two battered old fogeys. And with the Games coming up in a couple of days, they’ll only have one thing on their minds. Or maybe two,” he said slyly. He nodded at the three bowls on the rail. “Anyway, it just means there’s more of this stuff for us.”
Adda looked down at the row of bowls. They were crudely carved of wood and were little larger than his cupped palm, and they were fixed to the rail by stubs of wood. The bowls contained small slices of what might have been bread. Adda, cautiously, pulled out a small, round slice; it was dense, warm and moist to the touch. He turned it over doubtfully. “What the hell’s this?”
Bzya laughed, looking pleased with himself. “I didn’t think you’d have heard of it yet. No bars in the upflux, eh, my friend?”
Adda glared. “I’m supposed to eat this stuff?”
Bzya extended his fingers, inviting Adda to do so.
Adda sniffed at the plastic stuff, squeezed it and finally took a small nibble. It was as hot, dense and soggy as it looked — unpleasant inside the mouth — and the taste was sour, unidentifiable. Adda swallowed the fragment. “Disgusting.”
“But you’ve got to treat it right.” Bzya dipped into the bowl, drew out a thick handful of the stuff, and crammed it into his mouth. His big jaws worked as he chewed the stuff twice, then swallowed it down in one go. He closed his eyes as the hot food passed down his throat; and after a few seconds he shuddered briefly, suppressing a sigh. Then he belched. “That’s how you take beercake.”
“Beercake?”
“Try it again.”
Adda reached into the second bowl and lifted a healthy handful of cake to his mouth. It sat in his mouth, hot, dense and eminently indigestible; but, with determination, he bit into it a couple of times and then swallowed, forcing his throat to accept the incompressible stuff. The cake passed down his throat, a hard, painful lump. “Fabulous,” he said when it was gone. “I’m so glad I came.”
Bzya grinned and held up his palm.
…And a heat seemed to surge smoothly out from Adda’s stomach, flooding his body and head; his palms and feet tingled, as if being worked by invisible fingers, and his skull seemed to swell in size, filling up with a roomy, comfortable warmth. He looked down at his body, astonished, half-expecting to see electron gas sparking around his fingertips, to hear his skin sighing with the new warmth. But there was no outward change.
After a few seconds the heat-surge wore away, but when it had receded it left Adda feeling subtly altered. The bar seemed cozier — friendlier — than even a moment before, and the smell of the remaining beercake was pleasing, harmonious, enticing.
“Welcome to beercake, my friend, and a new lifelong relationship.”
The pleasing warmth induced by the cake still permeated Adda. He poked at the cake with a new wonder. “Well, I’ve not eaten anything with such an impact before, up- or downflux.”
“I didn’t think so.” Bzya picked up a piece of cake and compressed it between his fingers. “Farr is developing a taste too, I ought to say. It’s a mash, mostly of Crust-tree leaf. But it’s fermented — in huge Corestuff vessels, for days…”
“Fermented?”
“Spin-spider web is put into the vats with the mash. There’s something in the webbing, maybe in the glistening stuff that makes it sticky, which reacts with the mash and changes it to beercake. Magic.”
“Sure.” Adda took another mouthful of the beercake now; it was as revolting as before, but the anticipation of its aftereffects made the taste much easier to bear. He swallowed it down and allowed the warmth to filter through his being.
“What does the stuff cost?”
“Nothing.” Bzya shrugged. “The Harbor authorities provide it for us. As much as we want, as long as we’re able to do our jobs.”
“What do you mean? Is it bad for you?”
“If you overdo it, yes.” Bzya rubbed his face. “It works on the capillaries in your flesh — dilates them — and some of the major pneumatic vessels in the brain. The flow of Air is subtly altered, you see, and…”